


Small Mercies

by jurassicgalaxy



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Chronic Pain, Drabble, Gen, Ignis is stressed, Light Angst, Mentions of past injury, Noct is a little shit, dealing with the end of a stressful day, just two exhausted boys, no unsolicited concrit please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 01:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12924627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jurassicgalaxy/pseuds/jurassicgalaxy
Summary: Noctis and Ignis have had a stressful day. Things get worse before they get better.





	Small Mercies

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all,  
> Thanks for reading this. This little ficlet is my first foray into the world of FFXV. Given that much, I apologise if character interactions seem a bit unnatural or OOC, I certainly intend to write more for this fandom, but you've gotta walk before you can run.  
> Hope y'all enjoy!

 

**Chapter One: Small Mercies (M.E. 753, February the 5 th)**

It’s a quarter past ten in the evening when Noctis fumbles his way into his penthouse with Ignis in tow. Both are the very picture of exhaustion. Noctis looks like he’s about to drop dead on the spot, and Ignis has developed a twitch on his left eyebrow that doesn’t look like it’s going away anytime soon.

“If I never have to hear Councilman Septimius talk about the ‘horrendous state of the Kingsglaives’ Common Quarters’ again, it’ll still be too soon.” Noctis grumbles as he slides down onto the couch that takes up a generous portion of the prince’s penthouse.

It’s a testament to just how completely fucking _done_ Ignis is with the day behind them that he grunts in tacit agreement with his charge. In his arms, Ignis carries a small mountain of paperwork relating to the day’s proceedings. Ignis drops the paperwork onto the dining room table with a loud ‘ **THUD** ’ that sends a jolt through Noctis.

Ignis glares at the offending pile of reports with an icy glare that could have put the Glacian to shame. He stalks into the kitchen afterwards, putting the kettle to boil and preparing two cups of (regrettably, instant) coffee.

Noctis musters the strength of will to drag himself to the kitchen despite all of the bones and muscles in his body demanding that he fling himself onto the nearest flat surface. Or an endless pit. Both had their perks, as far as the prince was concerned, the latter looking especially preferable to having to deal with the paperwork that had been left on his table.

Taking a seat, Noctis buried his face in his hands, elbows propped up on the table, and slumped into a position that did not look very comfortable at all. It is only the purposeful taps of Ignis’ footsteps on the marble tile flooring of the penthouse and the scent of freshly brewed coffee that gets the prince to perk up, even slightly. He takes the proffered mug that his advisor hands him with a mumbled ‘thanks’, sipping on the boiling contents of his mug.

Ignis sits across from Noct, reaches for the folder perched precariously on top of the pile of paperwork, looks at it with a look on his face that could pass for severe constipation or thinly veiled disgust, and opens the folder.

Upon reading the title of the report, ‘ _Projected Farming and Exports Report for Leide– M.E. 753-756_ , Ignis is sure that getting through this first report alone is going to be like pulling teeth. Noct is aloof at the best of times, and utterly recalcitrant at his worst, and the look that Noctis gives Ignis when he recognises that this is going to be a thoroughly unpleasant end to the day is one Ignis is grateful he doesn’t see more often.

The look that Noct wears is one of dejection flirting in equal parts with pain and exhaustion. Ignis notices that the prince’s shoulders are tense, and his brows are furrowed in such a way that tells when the prince is beyond mild discomfort. Ignis could curse himself a fool for not realising what was going on, and tosses the report at the pile with professional aplomb. Noct had never been good at sitting still for very long, even more so after his injury at the hands of the Marilith and to this day.  

“Noct,” Ignis’ cultured Tenebraean accent twists the syllables of his charge’s name in such a way that always gets the heir of House Caelum to pay attention to what his chamberlain is saying. “I daresay that we could both use a break before getting back to business. Would you take your tea here, or in the loungeroom?”

Noct mumbles something that could either have been ‘lounge’ or a particularly foul Nifillian expletive, rises up from his chair, leaving his coffee behind, and shuffles his way into the loungeroom, wincing with every step. Ignis couldn’t hold back the flinch that raced through his body as Noctis collapsed onto the sofa and made a sound not unlike that a wounded animal might make.

Ignis in turn stands up, placing the discarded folder regarding Leiden farming projections back at the top of the sizeable pile, it would not have done well to leave a mess on the table. Noct was quite adept at doing that by himself, thank you very much. Ignis certainly had no need to contribute to the prince’s mess, especially considering that he’d tidied up just that morning.

Ignis moves into the kitchen and puts the kettle to boil for the second time that night. He reaches into the cupboards hanging above the granite benchtops of Noct’s kitchen, reaching for a tin that Ignis knew to be at least a decade old and not of Lucian origin. Ignis also knew that this tin and its contents were precious to Noct, so he took the utmost care in handling the tin and placing it on the counter.

Upon the kettle reaching full boil, Ignis turns the appliance off and waits for a few moments. Boiling water had a tendency towards ruining the type of tea that Ignis was preparing for Noct.

Only when Ignis is sure that the water has reached the right temperature, Ignis pours the water into a new mug, and then turns his attention to the tin. Popping the lid of the tin, Ignis pours a small amount of the tea into a strainer and places the tea strainer over the lip of the mug.

It takes all of three minutes for the tea to brew to its completion. The soft scent of sylleblossoms fills the kitchen, reminding Ignis of his mother’s homeland. Ignis smiles softly at that; it wasn’t often he thought of his parents, especially his mother, but the scent of the national flower of Tenebrae in whatever form it came brought with it fond memories and a strangely pleasant ache in his chest.

Ignis places the tin back in its cupboard, removes the strainer from the mug and places it gently in the sink. A dash of milk goes into the sylleblossom tea, and on a small plate beside the tea, Ignis places two pills, reasonably strong painkillers at that.

Ignis picks up the mug and the small plate, heads from the kitchen into the loungeroom, and takes a seat beside Noct, whose eyes are glazed over and his breathing is heavy. He’s hunched over, and his knuckles are white under the tension of Noctis’ fists.

“ _Noct_ ,” Ignis’ voice is gentle as he speaks to his charge, and Ignis is reminded of the time shortly after the attack at the hands of the Marilith. He remembers how Noct had hated being treated like he was fragile, like he _broken_ , so Ignis adjusts his approach.

“Noct,” Ignis’ inflection is not too far from his day-to-day speech, and it rouses Noct better than his previous attempt. His prince is silent, but Ignis knows that Noct is with him now. Ignis takes Noct’s left hand in his own and unclenches his prince’s fist. He places the pills in Noct’s hands and urges the prince to swallow them. Afterwards, he presses the warm tea into Noct’s hands and watches the prince’s eyes widen as he takes the first sip.

“Is this...?”

“It is.” Ignis confirms, knowing full well what Noct is about to ask. “From the Hanging Gardens of Tenebrae themselves.”

Noct takes another sip, the tension in his shoulders gradually drains out with every exhale. “Thanks, Specs.” Noct mutters into his mug, he rolls his shoulders a little, but the wince that crosses his face tells Ignis that the pain hasn’t gone away in its entirety.

“How long were you hurting for?” Ignis asks calmly, his gaze is drawn out on the Insomnian cityscape. It occurs to Ignis, not for the first time, that the city is aptly named. The city never truly sleeps.

“Since Councilwoman Knope started filibustering on the whole River Tiber clean-up effort.” Noctis sighs a little bit at that.  He takes another sip of his tea, enjoying the way that it burns as it travels down his throat, flooding his senses in the memories of Tenebrae and of Luna. Now, Noct realises, there’s another memory associated with the scent. The scent of his advisor’s cologne, citrusy with delicate undertones of sylleblossom, probably more expensive than the yearly paycheque of most anyone outside of Insomnia’s Walls.

“That was four hours ago.”

“I’ve had worse.”

Ignis winced at, because gods damn him, it was true. He remembered when Noct had first returned to the Citadel after the assault by the daemon, how the boy had whimpered in his fever dreams, how his waking moments had been agony as he tried to recover from having his spine practically severed in two. “That doesn’t mean that you should just suffer in silence. The Citadel Pharmacy isn’t stocked with painkillers because the packaging is _pretty._ ”

“Really?” Noct drawls, some of the colour has returned to his face. “I honestly had _no idea_.”

There’s a short moment of silence between the prince and his advisor. It’s a tense moment shared together in the half-light that fills the loungeroom of the prince’s penthouse. And then, in that moment, Ignis smirks, just a little bit. Noctis notices the slight upturn at the corner of his advisor’s lips, and he can’t stop the roguish grin that breaks his stoic mask.

“Perhaps Gladio was right, coming up with that little moniker of his.” Ignis sniffs. “What was it again, ‘Prince Charmless’? Is that right, your Highness?”

Noct rolls his eyes in such a wide arc that it’s a wonder that they don’t fall out. “You should hear some of the stuff he calls you when he thinks you’re not listening.”

Ignis hums, “Oh, I have some idea of what he calls me when he’s blowing off steam, however, his inferences regarding sticks and my arse are not quite physically possible when one considers human anatomy.”

“It wasn’t a stick.” Noctis said.

“Well, I guess I can take some comfort in- “

“It was actually a tree trunk.” The crown prince states, a shit-eating grin tacked onto his face. Ignis has to admit that the look is good on his usually rather sullen liege.

“Oh.” Was all Ignis could say to that. “Well, I suppose my original point still stands then.”

The night ends for Noctis shortly after. Not one to say no to a good night’s sleep, he takes Ignis up on his offer to let the young monarch sleep while his advisor distils the reports into their summaries, and breaks them down further into something that Noct can digest over his breakfast in the morning.

It’s well after two in the morning before Ignis is finished, his temples throbbing with the beginnings of a headache. Ignis, in a rare moment for his waking life, takes his glasses off. He rubs the bridge of his nose, and then his eyes. He allows himself a moment to simply sit there, in the chair at Noct’s table. He turns his head slowly to work out a crick in his neck. Even despite his astigmatism, he can still see the city outside the window, the sparkling jewel in Lucis’ crown that is Insomnia. Ever bright, ever gleaming, ever watchful.

It’s in these moments that Ignis can relax, when he knows that his charge is safe and well, resting through the worst of his pain. Ignis cradles a cup of tea, not sylleblossom scented, and watches the city lights for a few moments.

His work is done for the night and his schedule for tomorrow is frightfully bare, so he can rest now, content that a less stressful day will come with the dawn.


End file.
